Viperous allure segmented and scalded his skull in waves; brilliant and vicious, horrible and hostile, a poisonous, venomous vector he toyed and played with, because success clamored through his pernicious, Machiavellian mind. For once, he’d been effective in orchestrating more than just landmines and catacombs, in grave, eerie raptures and nefarious reveries. He’d delved into politics and reached the surface without slashing the tides to fragments, slivers, and pieces of a broken, destitute nation; and he was capable of holding more than just cutlasses, rapiers, and shields in hand. There was some measure to him besides being the constant, immoral statue and guardian of the Basin – and for that reason alone, he held his head higher. The beast, the monster, the Lord’s malignant determination had finally found more than just a singular niche. The notions and sentiments carried him all the way from haunting poignancy, to their frozen, chilling sanctuary.
 
They trudged through the lands one by one, slinking and slithering between mist and fog, open fields and cascading loam; he, the eternal Reaper, protected and safeguarded as they marched towards icy denizens and looming mountains, assuring the Edge inhabitant’s safety without issuing a single word or command. His eyes were narrowed, his senses were honed, and he was the King of darkness and death, presiding over each and every kingdom as if he held a scythe in his grasp, sweeping over empires and heartless voids with potent, powerful strides. He was silent, detached, and nonchalant the entire way (could hardly strike up a conversation, didn’t know which method of discourse to try and shied from it), but when they reached the high walls and the towering peaks, with their presaged, bestial banes and their treacherous perils, their gleaming fortitude and all the might, the resilience, the brilliance forged within their armaments, he gave a half-hearted smile, a distinction of pride. The fiend even turned his head towards the moon-creature, dipping his cranium in respect to foretold goals and events, “Welcome to the Basin,” and indicating the borders with a swift nod.
 
Before the Edge dweller could ask anything about their world – the rime sanctions flanked in blackguard machinations, the feral strings of scathing defiance ringing its way within cavern apertures, the ensnaring, beguiling beauty of danger and intrigue, he continued, wandering beneath the Sentinels’ decaying gaze, watching to ensure Glasgow followed. He wound along the unfreezing lake, deep into the heart of the valley, encompassing a moving tempest, a rigid, possessive friction of mass and adherence, allegiance and alliance to chilling, stone fixtures. There, they meandered further along the embankment, just outside the Haruspex’s cave, to a patch of greenery and soil that had already been patted down in a previous season by the healers. Deimos ceased his movement, noting the space with an arched brow (because here, he was ultimately lost – not carrying any crafting gene whatsoever or the mind to orchestrate anything but plots, ruses, and devastation). “Are you ready?” He noted, unsure and uncertain of what needed to happen next, but forever willing to aid the process. “Do you require anything?” Perhaps someone who knew something more? 

[Greenhouse crafting thread! Tagging healers and those who wanted to be involved. Feel free to pop in if you want to help! Please let Glasgow post first.]